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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816037">Attention Paid</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment'>merelyafigment</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue'>visionofblue (merelyafigment)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Oz (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alonzo Torquemada is there, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:34:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Miguel Alvarez is drifting along in a drug-fueled haze after everyone is shipped back to the newly cleaned Oz. He manages to drift right into a new Emerald City class aimed at rehabilitation. Cyril O'Reily is there, too. (Set in an AU post-season 6 where Cyril O'Reily escaped execution.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miguel Alvarez &amp; Cyril O'Reily</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Attention Paid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Warning:</b> Oz was full of bad language, homophobic, misogynistic, and racist slurs and attitudes. It had terrible attitudes towards many things really, plus violence, drugs use, other bad deeds, etc. They were an offensive bunch, and any of my Oz fic could contain those offensive things. This fic is mostly just language and slurs, and graphic threats. (No actual violence.)</p><p><b>Notes:</b> Obviously Canon Divergence, with Cyril being alive and in Emerald City still. Maybe Kenmin was never there. Maybe the Priest managed to actually help with Cyril's appeal before he died. Something did or didn't happen, and voila -- Cyril lives! I don't focus on the how/why here. Alvarez isn't aware that Cyril is supposed to canonically be dead after all, so it's not like he's thinking in depth about it. ;) </p><p>This was inspired by a kind commenter who mentioned something about wanting more Miguel and Cyril interaction. (This unsuspecting nice person did not intend to inspire this weird thing, I'm sure. It just happened, because sometimes random things people say embed in my brain and turn into weird ideas later.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Miguel Alvarez had somehow ended up in some fucking art therapy class or something. He'd just vaguely nodded along and agreed to whatever the nun had been saying to him a few days ago, and signed up because her expression hadn't made it look like <em>no thanks</em> was an option. To be honest, he hadn't been paying attention, and it could be sort of hard to tell what was actually real, and what was the swirling false world provided by D-tabs these days. </p><p>Plus, it's not like he fucking cared. About anything. Sit in a room for an hour, but you know, a slightly different room than the one you're usually sitting in? Not a problem. </p><p>He just knew that now he was in one of Em City's pointless little classrooms instead of out in the quad. They <em>said</em> they'd scrubbed the whole fucking place after that insane bio-weapon shit Keller had pulled. Shit -- now <em>that</em> whole thing really sounded like some fucked up hallucination. No wonder people were drifting away to the land of Destiny, it was their reality that was seriously crazy. </p><p>Everyone in charge, even the pretty chick in the bad blazer on the news playing on their same old televisions, had said they'd cleaned it and it was safe. Sure. But the classrooms' chalkboards still fucking had their obscenity scrawled on them, exactly like the foul-mouthed inhabitants had left them when they'd been shipped off for those months of 'decontamination'. Didn't even clean the fucking boards, couldn't even erase fucking <em>chalk</em>, but they were supposed to believe those private contractor assholes had made it safe as fucking houses for them to breathe in. </p><p>So, they all might die. Or like suffer brain damage or something. </p><p>Miguel couldn't bring himself to care about that, either. He was busy fucking up his brain his own damn self in order to make it more inhabitable. </p><p>That's how he'd ended up here. He remembered now. His behavior lately had been too obvious. Now, that other lock-up out of state they'd briefly crammed him into? They hadn't noticed dick. He'd had a couple months of free floating, since he'd been shuttled right along with the King of the D-trade. Sister Pete? Had taken one look at his high (hopeless) ass the second they got back, and now he was in a crappy chair at a crappy fucking desk-- </p><p>--were these new? He didn't remember these desks. Didn't look new, pretty beat up and worn out looking, really. Shiiit -- Miguel's had a shitty little heart carved into it under the desktop that lifted up to reveal a cubby underneath -- probably wasn't a good idea to have things with little hideaway cubbies in here, actually. Everyone in charge here was a fucking moron. Or they didn't really care. Miguel couldn't entirely fault them for that. He used to hate them for it, back when he let fire and life rush through his veins instead of D-tabs and oblivion. Now, though, yeah he didn't like them, but he also knew how much easier it was not to give a fuck. </p><p>Miguel had been lifting the desktop/lid and setting it back down, sort of in an awkward clunking rhythm as they waited for whoever was going to teach them. He paused with the desktop held up to properly look at his shitty little heart (those had no fucking place in here either). Maybe it wasn't that little. Had <em>Bobby</em> scratched awkwardly inside of it, with a little dash underneath the heart that was followed by <em>Kat</em>. Shitty artists' signature, must've been. Kat's heart was full of Bobby, because Kat was a dumb bitch, and this had definitely come from a high school. Probably decades old. Kat had probably wised up and hated Bobby's ass by now. Or forgotten him entirely. (Everything in here got forgotten. The inhabitants, manners, caring, kindness, mercy, hope, even the fucking desks.) </p><p>"Now, would you look at that. How sweet, sugar. You got the romantic one." Torquemada leaned over, of course, purring right into his ear. Or maybe he'd been right there the whole time, that close. Miguel didn't really pay attention to that, either. Motherfucker hadn't lied about some things. He didn't try to touch Miguel's ass. Well, beyond the occasional caressing and petting, but that didn't involve his literal ass. Nothing sexual. No dicks. So, Miguel could just float right by Torquemada's side and still mostly ignore him. Those little touches, well, Miguel floated right past those, too. How they made him feel, maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was this place, where no one else was going to touch him carefully,  or pleasantly, again. If he stopped drifting, he'd have to notice how those caresses were almost a tease. A taste. Something he couldn't have. Didn't want it from Alonzo, so best to just let that shit lie while Miguel spun into the clouds, cold and weightless. Barely there. Vapor. Alonzo's light dancing touches passed right through him, never landing on anything solid. </p><p>Miguel only realized that Torquemada and Fiona jabbering at each other had been a background soundtrack to his thumping, like an irritating babbling brook or something, now that they had stopped. </p><p>If he felt anything like irritation, he must be coming down. Shit. Now he'd have to draw his feelings or whatever when he wasn't high. When his ass was high, his only feelings were manufactured bliss, hazy at best. Tripping probably would've improved his artistic capabilities, honestly. That false haze was better than the real shit he wasn't letting himself feel, and it'd be way prettier. As it was, coming down now, he'd be tempted to just scrawl a big mess of winding lines and knots until the paper was black, and he ripped right the fuck through it with his scratching. If they gave him paper. Or something to draw with. Nobody was here yet, and they hadn't. Maybe that's not what this class was? Maybe they were just going to talk about art or something, like maybe all those paintings those old dead dudes did of chicks with their tits hanging out. </p><p>He maybe wouldn't mind that. As long as he didn't think about it too much as he sobered up, how he'd probably never see real tits again. </p><p>He heard another thump, louder and more... just more. His head turned automatically towards the movement, because he didn't make a hell of a lot of planned conscious decisions anymore. Okay, that's why there were more thumps and clatters -- Cyril O'Reily was at the next desk, lifting the desktop in a bored fidget, like Miguel had been, but Cyril was tilting his chair back on its back legs at the same time, leaning back just as he let the lid drop. He was clearly doing a thing. Like a game he made up to amuse himself. </p><p>His ass was going to fall. </p><p>That cherub-faced guy, one of O'Reily's boys, was sitting on Cyril's other side, looking hilariously fucking worried. Other O'Reily wasn't there, or there probably would've been more bitching and moaning. </p><p>Cyril thunked heavily back on all four chair legs, lifted the desktop again, continuing the cycle. Hadn't fallen yet, though. </p><p>Maybe Miguel should try it. It would be something to do, at least. </p><p>Then some bitching started, but it had a whole vicious edge to it that was different than just Big Bro being annoyed by Little Bro. </p><p>Fucking Nazis. </p><p>Those assholes were like cockroaches. </p><p>Keller had wiped most of them out, and Beecher had cut off their head, and yet lo and fucking behold -- there was a new one in Em City when they got back. His white power ass was kind of lonesome at the moment, though. All the big players were gone due to the former twisted duo's previous house-cleaning, and now? A living breathing rainbow flag cyclops of a Latino was ruling the land. Also, he was a drug kingpin. Torquemada was pretty much a fucking towering giant made of everything this Aryan cocksucker hated. Was sort of funny, really. For one thing, the cockroach didn't have the balls to mess with Alonzo. He started messing with the O'Reily kid instead. </p><p>"Quiet the fuck down before I deck your ass with your damn desk you fucking 'tard!" </p><p>Yeah. </p><p>This Nazi was dead. Wouldn't last the week. Maybe Miguel should start a betting pool. That would take effort and energy Miguel hadn't bothered expending lately, though. He could tell Alonzo to do it, and Miguel would definitely get a cut. He'd also get fucking cooed at for being such a clever boy or something, though, so maybe not going to do that. O'Reily maybe? He ran shady side-books under the wiseguys' noses. Would be a bitch getting him to give Miguel a cut, though. Again -- effort. Everything took...well, everything... in here. Everything you had. Every little bit until you were drained dry. Miguel had been drained the fuck dry already. </p><p>This new Nazi cockroach was definitely not coming out of this roach motel alive, though. He was fucking with an O'Reily for one thing, and each of them was dangerous in their own special snowflake of death way. Cyril generally didn't even <em>try</em> to fuck people up and he'd managed it a few times anyway. </p><p>Plus, the guy who'd offed the Nazi King was sitting right behind Cyril. And while Beecher looked sane and compassionate today, he'd also sort of been casually leaning over his desk with his arms outstretched a little, watching Cyril's desk game. Like maybe he cared about Cyril falling backwards on his ass and might try to catch him. Beecher's face had also hardened when the doomed Aryan had spoken, automatically. </p><p>"Those are bad words. You shouldn't use bad words." Cyril looked pretty much fine with the confrontation, really. Same as he ever looked. Was Cyril the one who always tied his hair back in that tidy ponytail? Or did Ryan O'Reily actually like, do his brother's hair every morning? Miguel couldn't remember if he'd ever watched them do it in the morning when he'd used to scope everyone out in their pods and actually pay attention. He knew he'd probably been idly curious and amused over it a long time ago. </p><p>Despite the pissed off Nazi standing up to yell at him, Cyril O'Reily stayed still in his seat, legs flat on the floor and no longer playing his strange game. He seemed pretty calm, and not at all threatened. Maybe a little irritated, but in that way you got with someone who wasn't worth your time. Cyril may act sort of like a child, but children could be superior-acting little shits sometimes, and that's sort of how Cyril looked now. (Miguel had a little sister, he remembered. Plus, he'd probably been a superior little shit, too.) It probably just pissed the baby Nazi off more, that the slow guy was treating him like he was a harmless idiot. "I don't have to listen to you. Ryan said only to listen to the teacher and Liam and the Hacks--" </p><p>Cyril was making some good fucking points, too, while he wasn't taking the Nazi's bait. It was sort of amazing that Miguel wasn't high anymore and this was reality for once. Miguel briefly wondered why Cyril was in this class. Did the Sister think this shit would help him, or did he just like to draw and Ryan wanted the kid out of his hair for awhile? </p><p>"What the fuck did you say to me, Retard?!" Apparently, this racist fuckwad decided he was angry enough to use the whole slur. Was repeating himself, though, and that was also pathetic. "I'll make your ass listen--" </p><p>The rosy-cheeked Irish babysitter looked pissed now, too, turning his attention from worrying about Cyril cracking his skull open (again, presumably, given the guy's injury before landing in Oz) during his earlier chair game, onto the skinhead. "Hey! Shut the fuck up and back off--" </p><p>Okay, Irish wasn't creative either, and he <em>sort of</em> looked and sounded threatening. But he wasn't the most naturally intimidating looking guy, with those cute chubby cheeks and all. The Irish were plenty fucking dangerous, but this shiny new Aryan asshole clearly wasn't clever enough to have learned that yet. Beecher looked like he was about to step up, too. </p><p>Cyril's third defender was the most surprising. Like, that one was a real fucking shock -- because it was <em>him.</em> </p><p>"Yo! You inbred jack-booted motherfucker! Shut your dumb mouth and sit your ass down before I ram that fucking chair leg so far up it I'm gonna be stealing your pudding in the hospital ward for weeks!" Miguel didn't even have to stand up. He just had to lean forward, lifting out of his seat half an inch, one arm outstretched and aggressively pointing out said leg and its chair that the asshole needed to sit down in. Miguel's voice was loud. Rough. It carried weight and power it hadn't carried in -- fuck, it seemed like a lifetime. He felt it in his throat, in his lungs, in a way he hadn't felt anything real in so long. He sat back heavily, focused again in another long forgotten familiar way. Right on that skinhead bastard. (Why did they never clue in to the fact that just made them look even more like the literal dicks they behaved like?) He lowered his voice, but it carried a different kind of danger now. Casual, relaxed, didn't-give-a-fuck confidence. "I mean, I'll be in the hospital ward with you 'cause that's my work detail. Your weak punk ass definitely isn't putting me in there, cutre." </p><p>Everyone was staring at Miguel now. Including Torquemada, of course, but that was nothing new. Miguel could see his ass practically glowing with avaricious pride or some shit to his right, while Cyril was watching him from the left. Even Beecher was regarding him thoughtfully. Well, the Nazi wasn't looking at anyone anymore. He'd sat the fuck down, turning to face the board and a teacher that wasn't there yet. </p><p>Cyril definitely didn't look proud. He looked stern in that childlike way, like he was giving lessons to the less well-behaved kids. "Those are bad words, too. You shouldn't say those even when someone makes you angry." Unlike the lecture the Nazi had gotten, Cyril seemed sort of nice towards Miguel. "Even if you're protecting me. Why are you--" Cyril's expression changed to confusion, and it turned into him getting sidetracked. "I don't know your name." </p><p>Miguel was sure he'd probably hung around with Cyril by default occasionally back in the days before Destiny, while playing cards or checkers with the other brother. You hung around everyone in here eventually. There wasn't much <em>around</em> to the place, after all. Ryan kept the kid pretty locked down as far as interacting went, though. And maybe he just hadn't paid attention to Miguel's name, or remembered it. (Or maybe Miguel wasn't himself anymore. Maybe Torquemada was succeeding in being him instead, and Miguel was just... pills and nothingness.) </p><p>"Alvarez. Your beautiful black knight is Miguel Alvarez, dear boy." Torquemada supplied, smooth as always. He sounded happy. Downright delighted, almost. (Fuck him for sounding that way in here.) </p><p>Miguel sighed, shaking his head the second he realized how Alonzo's delivery of Miguel's name might go over with the fairly literal O'Reily brother. Miguel kept talking. He was still talking. Aware and engaged. And even a little annoyed and frustrated -- and art therapy was turning out to be a real bitch, when it hadn't even started yet. He was waking up. Being awake fucking hurt, he knew that much. Didn't hurt yet, though. Just a bit fucking annoying. "My name ain't Miguel Alvarez Dear Boy. It's just Alvarez." </p><p>"Oh. Okay." Cyril nodded, like he was committing it to memory. Trying to file it away like a weird distorted mirror of how fucking Ryan O'Reily filed everything away. "Hi, Alvarez. I'm Cyril." Cyril started to reach out his hand maybe, but he slapped it back down on his desk. "I'm not supposed to shake hands. Ryan said--" </p><p>Miguel chuckled, and that felt gruff and strange, too. Different than his Destiny-manufactured amusement. Wasn't laughing at the kid, though. Fucking Oz -- so many little rules and rituals. Yeah, you definitely weren't supposed to go greeting motherfuckers with handshakes in here. "Nah, shouldn't do that. Big bro's right on that, hermano." It spilled out of a forgotten place inside, like everything else had. Hermano. Didn't really mean brother the same way in here, but it was more familiar. Nicer, like baby bro was trying to be for some reason. "Here -- do this." Miguel clenched a loose fist, and Cyril mimicked the action, but looked worried. </p><p>"I'm not supposed to hit people either." </p><p>"Yeah, no punching. Just bump, O'Reily. Like this." Miguel held his hand outstretched. </p><p>Cyril bumped his fist, and Miguel jacked his hand back with a quiet percussive exhale that mimicked an explosion in one smooth move. </p><p>Cyril was not impressed. "I know that." Cyril rolled his eyes, sounding mildly annoyed at being underestimated. "I do that with Ryan. He does the same thing." Cyril mimicked Miguel's explosion, a little louder, finally giving over to looking amused and laughing a little. </p><p>Miguel felt himself grinning. Didn't consciously decide to do that either, but he didn't hear pure genuine laughter in here often, however low and short Cyril's was. Genuine grin, too, and you never saw that without it being about something violent, dirty, or plain nasty. Picturing that dangerous motherfucker Ryan O'Reily playing around like a kid to entertain his little brother was pretty funny, too. </p><p>The Irish guard dog was watching Miguel still, eyes narrowing in keenly assessing calculation. Damn -- did all of the Irish do that? Ryan O'Reily was better at it than this guy, but it was still creepy. </p><p>"Yeah, don't do that with just anyone either, though." Miguel advised Cyril, leaning back in his chair, as sprawled against the seatback as he could be in its uncompromising plastic rigidness. </p><p>"But I can with you?" Cyril asked, not quite hesitant. Curious, maybe. </p><p>Cyril was still curious, even after years in here. Miguel used to care enough to inquire and wonder about a lot of things, too, hadn't he? </p><p>"Yep." Miguel decided, tapping out a rhythm on the old desktop with his fingers. He made a decision. His first in awhile. And it was something stupid, but it was still... it wasn't floating aimlessly. </p><p>"You can also do it with me--" Always there. In his ear. Smooth and offering aimless escape. Alonzo chiming in. Always. Fucking always. </p><p>Miguel cut him off. (That was yet another return to something old. Hadn't done that in ages, felt like. Hadn't bothered, or cared to do anything but let the other man's words and attention wash over him unabated.) "-- Nope. Not with him. Definitely never do anything with his ass." </p><p>Torquemada huffed in far less pure amusement near Miguel, unoffended as he held up his hands in surrender. </p><p>"Okay, Alvarez." Cyril nodded again, like he was listening. </p><p>Why the fuck was he listening to Miguel? That shit hadn't ended well for Miguel himself. Baby bro was probably screwed. </p><p>Then the familiar whoosh of the door announced the arrival of their late-ass teacher. Miguel's attention swung automatically again. </p><p>He was paying attention. </p><p>That never ended well, either. </p><p>***<br/>
End</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Besides being inspired to have these two interact more, I've been thinking about some sort of art class in Oz for awhile. (That part was actually inspired by K-Drama in a very weird roundabout way, as well as by the wonderfully enabling <a href="/users/jackiesjunkie/">jackiesjunkie</a>.) So, of course, the class never starts in the fic. Oops.</p><p>I actually haven't watched Season 666 in a decade at least, so I hesitated to write this and put it up. I think I currently lack the canon knowledge to do Miguel's mindset during that period justice, because I honestly don't remember much of it. I might go back and edit this at some later date, if I ever rewatch that season. (While I'm currently rewatching Oz ever so slowly, I don't know if I'm going to watch the final season. Alvarez's ending, among other things, broke me enough the first time around.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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